Authors: Chad Oliver
The
shaman
led
the
way
out
of
the
dark
chamber, back
into
the
small
cave
room
where
the
fire
was.
The show
was
over.
Even
in
50,000
b.c.,
it
appeared,
magicians
had
found
that
magic
worked
better
in
the
dark where
no
one
could
see
too
clearly.
But
it
had
been
a spectacular
performance,
judged
by
any
standards. Mark
noticed
that
the
shaman
was
having
trouble
holding
back
a
satisfied
smile.
He
was
evidently
well pleased
with
his
night’s
work.
The
painted
man,
now
dressed
in
a
heavily
decorated
coat,
placed
his
arm
on
Mark’s
shoulder
in
the
Danequa
gesture
of
friendship.
“Qualxen,”
he
said,
giving
his
name.
Mark
realized
that
he
was
being
honored, and
smiled
his
appreciation.
lie
returned
the
gesture, giving
his
own
name
despite
the
fact
that
Qualxen
obviously
already
knew
it.
There
was
an
awkward
moment
of
hesitation,
and Mark
figured
that
the
shaman
was
waiting
for
a
counterdemonstration
of
power.
The
ceremony
was
over,
so to
speak,
and
now
it
was
just
a
case
of
two
magic
men being
together.
Did
Mark
perhaps
have
a
trick
or
two of
his
own
up
his
sleeve?
Mark
did.
Furthermore,
he
would
do
his
trick
right out
in
the
open,
in
the
light,
without
mumbo-jumbo. He
fished
out
his
box
of
precious
matches
and
took
two matches
out
of
the
box.
He
thought
fast.
It
wouldn’t do
to
just
strike
the
matches;
the
essence,
the
vital
part, of
any
magic
trick
lay
in
the
build-up
you
gave
to
it. If
a
magician
just
walked
calmly
out
onto
a
brightly lighted
stage
and
proceeded
to
saw
a
woman
in
half, chances
are
that
the
audience
would
be
bored
stiff, even
if
he
really
did
saw
a
woman
in
half.
But
let
the house
lights
dim,
let
the
magician
chant
a
strange
song from
a
nameless
land,
let
the
weird
music
cry
and
moan in
the
orchestra
pit—that
was
different!
Mark
decided
that
he
had
to
have
a
chant,
at
least. Any
chant
in
English
would
do,
since
Qualxen
would not
know
what
he
was
saying.
He
thought
of
a
football yell,
but
that
didn’t
sound
right.
Finally,
he
selected
a rime
that
had
just
the
rhythm
he
desired.
Mark
frowned terribly
and
made
passes
at
the
air
with
his
hands.
He moaned
and
clapped
his
hands
six
times—use
of
the Danequa
magic
number
wouldn’t
hurt
any,
he
supposed.
Then,
suddenly,
he
stopped
dead
and
thrust his
face
at
Qualxen.
“‘Twas
the
night
before
Christmas,”
Mark
whispered in
an
eerie
tone
of
voice,
“and
all
through
the
house—”
The
shaman
jerked
backward
fearfully.
Truly,
this was
strong
medicine!
“Not
a
creature
was
stirring,” moaned
Mark
terribly,
“not
even
a
MOUSE!”